Sex & Sox

My passions: Sex and the Boston Red Sox!

Monday, January 31, 2005

Oh, Yes We Do!

So, I was talking to a fella from one of the games I play, regarding a post I made on the game boards about 'playing' sports... basically I completely turned the playing into a sexual thing. He IMs me:

Baseball-Playing Friend (11:07:01 PM): We do NOT make baseball a game watched for purely sexual reasons!

Baseball-Playing Friend (11:07:09 PM): Or any percentage of the reason at all!

Baseball-Playing Friend (11:07:11 PM): *scolds!*

Baseball-Playing Friend (11:07:20 PM): Baseball is watched for the game and not the pants. *scolds more!*

Baseball-Playing Friend (11:07:23 PM): Entirely!

Me on AIM (11:16:02 PM): *laughs!*

Me on AIM (11:17:37 PM): Perhaps, dear, that is your way of looking at it... but I have an entiiiiiiirely different view :-)

Baseball-Playing Friend(11:17:49 PM): I know!

Baseball-Playing Friend(11:17:54 PM): *sprays with water bottle*

Baseball-Playing Friend(11:17:56 PM): Wrong!

Me on AIM (11:23:06 PM): Ahh... alas for my policy of not getting personal with people from the games :-)

Baseball-Playing Friend(11:23:16 PM): Oi? *peers*

Me on AIM (11:24:06 PM): Baseball and sexuality are two things I can talk about for hours, as I run a website dedicated to the subjects... but... suffice to say you could spray me with a water bottle for days... or dump a waterfall on my head... and I would just raspberry ya :-P ... Oh, sweet boy, all I would need to do is give you this website. Or, all you would need to do is use Google wisely!

Sunday, January 30, 2005

Knee High Sox... and Schoolgirls

Once upon a time, the sexiness of socks was discussed. Ankle socks, it was noted, should be removed before having sex, but knee highs? They were cute. They could possibly stay (as could knee-high boots).In homage to the knee high, and cute schoolgirls everywhere, I spent the entirety of last night scouring the internet for pictures. It was a tough job to find pictures of women wearing those socks and other clothing, and because this wasn't to be a gallery full of nudes, I had to pick and choose carefully.

These, then, are my choices:

Okay, so it's thigh-high stockings. Still, it was too cute to pass up, especially with those seams up the back, so we'll get this little bit of cheating out of the way first. By the way, that particular style is called a 'Cuban Heel' and you'll notice that there's a diamond-shaped solid patch covering her heel from which the seam rises. Oh, and I like her corset :) And her hair :)A flock of schoolgirls! There's a Catholic high school somewhere close-ish to here, so we very often get to see young women who look much like this (though their uniform is more maroon than cherry red) prancing around outside or through the mall across the street. I'm really tickled by the fact that they have their shirts tied up.Hot hot hot. I could totally go for coming home to her waiting in my bedroom for me (okay, so I don't leave home much, but that doesn't change that I'd like to have her there). This came from a series of pictures of a pair of women, but I cut out the other woman because she was fairly trashy looking and she wasn't wearing the requisite knee highs! I love the riding crop.

This girl could possibly be wearing knee highs. But there wasn't a picture showing her legs, until they were up in the air doing some crazy splits and she was totally naked. I cropped her head off because she had this completely vapid deer-in-the-headlights look to her, but I thought her outfit was fucking adorable so had to include it.After scrolling through thousands of pictures, I literally stopped and stared at this one. The girl herself is absolutely lovely. Just look at how big and blue her eyes are and how dark her hair is... I don't know. I wish now I'd picked another picture of her that better showcased her face and was a bit less about her bum.And now, something that made me stop and laugh in my searching: Google Images was kind enough to turn out this picture for me while I searched for "knee high model" (thankfully, no midgets showed up, though I did later find a gallery devoted to them, which I didn't explore):That's it! Most of these pictures are courtesy links from http://www.xnxx.com, which is a huge source of free images and movies -- WITHOUT pop-ups.Oh, and, after all the hours we spent peeking at pictures and movies, laughing about the different taglines on websites ("When they have their stockings on, they're naughty!"), and admiring the women... we had some wicked sex!

Friday, January 28, 2005

Who Stopped the Rain?

For someone that writes and thinks about sex as much as I do, I sure am experiencing a drought in that aspect of my life right now. We haven't had sex in a month. It's the longest we've gone without while together.Now, in most relationships, I'd say this could be a sign of trouble. Not so, here. We still kiss, snuggle, say "I love you", sleep together naked and pressed close, smile, talk, laugh, and make each other breakfast. We're just experiencing (fortunately, at the same time) lack of desire. He works sixty to seventy hours a week, with only Saturdays off, and I sit at home feeling guilty about that fact. I hate having sex in the morning -- I don't like the groggy, dry-mouthed, "I have to pee" feelings, or the too-bright sunlight streaming in through our windows. Oh, have I mentioned we don't have curtains? On any of our windows? Voyeurs across the street must be sorely disappointed lately. Now, at night, I'm ready to go. It's dark and sultry, and I can set up candles to change the lighting. The apartment's nice and warm from me having the heat blasting all day while he's at work. But that's precisely it: he's been working all day on a freezing cold dock, supervising and loading and unloading, and he's exhausted.We're on different rhythms, and it's showing.Now, despite everything I write, and how I act, I'm still a quite normal woman, given to all the self-berating that women are. We'll have sex and instead of enjoying myself, I'll worry about whether my hair's getting knotted, or if there's cellulite showing, if I've got sock lint stuck to my toes or if I should've brushed my teeth first. I worry about how I feel, how I taste, how I smell, whether I've shaved recently and whether he cares, whether I'm making him do all the work or whether I'm doing enough, and most of all, I try to hide that extra chub on my belly. I'm usually excellent at controlling my thoughts and ignoring things that bother me, but I've been having a hell of a hard time doing it for the past few months.I know a lot of this is psychosomatic and has to do with being stressed. I'm not relaxed and I'm very unhappy with myself. As those of you who have read here for awhile know, I lived with a man three years ago, and while I worked full-time, he sat at home playing computer games. Now, the situation is reversed: I'm sitting at home playing computer games while my man works. I feel so guilty and wretched, and while he assures me that everything's fine and that he'd rather have us together like this than in different countries and both working (I agree), it's very hard for me to get myself out of my head.We've talked about the drought, and were even laughing about it earlier today, but it's definitely something that I'd like to avoid having happen in the future.Usually, I'd put a post like this in my personal journal, where a grand total of six people would read it, and we'd possibly talk about it but mostly likely just ignore it. But it does have to do with sex, and there are so many more people who visit here that I figure someone's got to have some story to relate. Oh, and, on a happier note: next week, on Tuesday, I'll be starting up a (not-safe-for-work) weekly feature here at Sex & Sox that will hopefully go over well!

Thursday, January 27, 2005

Almost a Bride, in Mourning

Well, it's taken me til now to be able to type out these words: Goodbye, Minty. I will miss you.

I could try to be poetic and classy, but the way I feel for you is a bit more raunchy than that. I've said it before, but I'll say it again, now that you'll be in New York, which is, as we all know, closer to Toronto than Boston is (though infinitely less interesting): please feel free to swing by my place and use me for some stress relief. I promise I'll even lock the chihuahua out of the bedroom so that his cold, wet little nose doesn't poke at all your manly bits (that's for my warm, soft little fingers and tongue).I know, I know, you hear this from all the women, and the wife seems like she's pretty badass and would probably beat the snot out of me for putting these thoughts out there for the world (Mrs. Mientkiewicz, e-mail me to discuss; I promise you that we can be friends, but please note that 'friends' has a different connotation in my world than it does in more upstanding circles), but there are some feelings a fine Russian lass such as myself cannot idly dismiss.I'm considering Mets fandom, though word on the street is that it's agonizing. I can deal with that, I think, but I don't know if I can put up with watching Pedro bat. It was funny in St. Louis, but I don't want to remember World Series Pedro, because it just makes me sad to think of how crankily (yes, that is a word, even if it isn't!) he left us.So, darling, know that there is at least one heart (and various other parts) in Red Sox Nation (admittedly, not one that's officially registered; one might say I have not been authenticated, but you can come authenticate me anytime) aching for you, and wishing you only the best. Kentucky Fried Kevin may be funnier, but I don't need a man to make me laugh when I'd rather he make me moan.As always,Your not-so-secret admirer,Tatiana.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Foosball....?!

Everyone in the Boston sports blogosphere, at least my little corner of it, is writing about football. Now, I have been avoiding commenting on this sport, because it's not my forte, and I don't particularly like going along with the crowd, but I also am in desperate need of an update, so, here tis:I like football. It's a fun, gritty sport that I enjoy playing, even though I always got my ass kicked when we played it in high school (for some reason, the boys were very aggressive towards me, though it might have had to do with the fact that I verbally castrated them everytime they looked cross-wise at me). However, I'm not attached to it -- at all -- and I don't feel any sense of loyalty towards any given team. If football's on the television and I've nothing better to do, I'll watch it, but it doesn't matter who is playing, or what the standings are ... I watch it to watch a game.This is in stark contrast to my feelings about baseball, which I love. Well, okay, maybe I don't really love baseball, but I love the Red Sox, and I am attached to them. With ten major players on the roster at a time and 168+ games a season, I don't really have a choice.But football? There's what, 19 games max in a season? And there's three different groups on a given team? How the hell do you get attached to all those men in such a short amount of time? One game a week, less if there's a bye? It just doesn't add up to me.Maybe if I were in Boston, and surrounded by football fever, I'd feel it. I dunno. I mean, I'll still go to a Super Bowl party, should we be invited to one, and I'll still cheer on the Patriots, because I luv New England sports (I don't love New England as a whole; I hate the cold goddamned weather, even if I love the landscape -- no, this doesn't explain me living in Canada). But if it were any team other than the Patriots there against the Eagles, I'd cheer just as whole-heartedly for one of them.So... someone explain?

Friday, January 21, 2005

Why I Love Toronto

There are a lot of reasons I love Toronto, but one of them is eye, the local 'alternative' lifestyle newsmagazine. While it's often full of itself and has a vaguely condescending tone to the writing, I still love flipping through it to find out what's going on in the city, and daydream about when I'll be able to afford going to all these artsy plays and concerts.

However, as anyone who reads knows, the absolute best part of these things are the personal ads. "27 y.o. SWM seeking A/BM to suck on. Not gay, but bi-curious"; "Sexy beautiful busty long hair brunette wants to please you. Orally gifted" and such.

But this? This takes the proverbial fucking cake.

Are you KIDDING me? As I told the boyfriend, I want an agent that travels the world looking for people to give me money to fuck me. God. What a life!

Thursday, January 20, 2005

The Construction of a Zealot

So I was sitting around the other day, trying to remember what it was that made me start liking baseball. My father hated sports, and my mother viewed them indifferently, so it was not a part of my life when I was a child. That time was filled with puppy dogs and video games, reading fantasy novels (with the notable exception of Tolkein, whose Lord of the Rings trilogy I picked up for the first time in September) and picking on my younger siblings (yes, I have an eighteen year old sister; no, you can't have her phone number).I really only remember my mother and brother sitting down together in front of the television sometime in 2002 and watching baseball games together. Unbeknownst to me, my mother, who grew up in the same damned Connecticut town that she later uprooted us to, was a long-time Red Sox fan, and had been brought into the fold by her brother, who had grown up with aspirations of being on the team, like any good New England boy.

But I didn't watch baseball with them; hell, I didn't particularly like either of them. I suppose that, once I moved back to Connecticut in 2003, I must've sat down and watched baseball news with my family. That was in April; all I know is that, in May, when baseball began, I was living alone in my apartment, and I was addicted.

I'd wake up and go to work, 8:30-5:00, like every other good peon. I had the TV Guide with Nomar on the cover propped up on my desk, surrounded by a halo of "Dilbert" comics (comics that aren't quite so funny now that I'm not in those situations daily), and when the end of the day rolled around my mother would pick me up, tote me home, and I'd go for a run.

I loved running. I'd strip down, toss on a sports bra, tank top, little shorts, ankle socks, and the same damned pair of sneakers I've had since high school, and go. Men would drive by and beep at me. I'd take my time going by the fire station, often pausing to bend over and adjust my shoelaces or stopping to stretch (I have a serious thing for firetrucks and hot men draped upon them).

But the best part of my run was the end -- when I came home, started dinner, and turned on NESN's pregame stuff. It might be on mute while I blasted one CD or another, or I might not be watching it while playing on my laptop, but as soon as they showed that far-away shot of the ballpark, stands full of fans, maybe a white dot or two roaming the field, my full attention was on that television.

2003 is when I fell completely in love with the Red Sox. There was Pedro, the ace, his red glove shading his face, those eyes deep under the gleam of sweat on his brow, with that intense look towards home plate. There was Todd Walker, his stance wide, rocking to and fro on his heels, waiting. There was Grady, not yet taboo, still wholesome and grinning and quintessentially trustworthy, swiping his nose or tapping the bill of his cap or pinching his earlobe. There was Bill Mueller, or at least there he was when Shea Hillenbrand wasn't, and there was Kevin Millar. There was Manny Ramirez, a mysterious and powerful presence, and there was Johnny Damon, waiting to run head-first into the wall and bounce back off, ball in glove. There was Ortiz, huge, unknown, but poised to make an immeasurable impact on Boston baseball. There was Casey Fossum, strong and promising, who would later be the basic block upon which we acquired Schilling.

And there -- the center of my Red Sox universe -- was Nomar.
It was his muscular but lanky build and infamously aquiline nose that caught my attention, his consummate athleticism and obsessive quirks that kept it. I laid there on my couch, in a supine position that later lent itself quite well to sex, and while I watched the team, I studied him. I had heard of him. He graced a pair of posters decorating the hallway near my sister's bedroom, and I can still picture, vividly, that Sports Illustrated cover.

There were times he would make a play and my phone would ring, and before I even answered I knew it was my mother. "What. A. Man-God," she would say, and I would agree, then we'd cheerily exclaim, "Bye!" and hang up.

Of course, I grew to love the entire team. How could I not? I've come to feel that's how being a Boston fan is: all-or-nothing. Not that such a mentality is demanded of us, but something about our boys inspires such a passion that when you talk about the game at work the next day, you don't say, "They had a great game," you say, "We had a great game." You experienced the game, you exalted in every positive and grieved at every negative.

Now, with our long overdue victory, people worry about bandwagon jumpers. The media snickers and expects us to lose our identity as fans. There's a whole slew of naysayers waiting for us to self-destruct, carried down by our own self-righteousness and adoration.

You know what? They can keep on waiting. I may not know how I ended up being addicted to this crazy ride, but I sure don't see myself leaving it any time soon.

Sunday, January 16, 2005

I Kissed A Girl...

When I was a freshman in high school (that's grade 9, for any Canadian readers), I had a penchant for antique nightgowns, Broadway musicals, and Ouija boards.No, really, stick with me here, it's worth it.I hung out with a group of girls who were universally decried as "freaky" geeks, because they were simply so un-cool that even acknowledging their existence lowered your standing in the eyes of your peers. Well, these were my friends, dammit all to hell, and their oddities were what made me like them (it should be noted that my reputation never recovered from this blow). We wrote moody, romantic poetry, told each other gothic love stories, and they worshipped Ann Rice while I despised her work, though I pretended to like her as well (this entailed carrying around one of her novels in my backpack at all times, along with the soundtrack to either "Les Miserables" or "Phantom of the Opera").We had frequent slumber parties at the home of our 'leader', Kim. Kim lived in the most beautiful farmhouse with her grandma and mother, sang soprano with the voice of an angel, and had a body that, while vaguely pear-shaped, fourteen year-old girls would kill for (and fourteen year-old boys ogled shamelessly). That first semester, I was lucky enough to be her favourite, and while the other girls sat next to each other, Kim and I sat against each other.Kim was also suffering -- well, perhaps joyfully living -- under the delusion that Lestat loved her. That he stood outside her home at night and sang to her with Michael Crawford's voice, purring words of love for her ears alone. "He'll do it with you there, I know," she told me once, as we sat beneath a tree sharing lunch, "I want you to spend the night on my birthday. He said he'd come to me then, and I want you there." Her earnest eyes were endlessly deep, and I happily agreed.Her sixteenth birthday was on a chilly day in late November, when the trees were bare and the ground dusted with snow. Looking from her bedroom window, you could see a graveyard of tilted headstones and mold-covered monuments, surrounded by those half-crumbled stone walls that are so prevalent in New England. This, she claimed, was where he stood, and where she would go to be near to him.Our group of geeks celebrated her birthday by playing the "Phantom of the Opera" soundtrack loudly enough to cover our breathless giggling and chattering about what the Ouija board told us. The other women of the household were too far away to hear us, but when 9 o'clock rolled around, Kim's mother came in with a smile and escorted all the other girls away to where their parents waited, in the graciously appointed living room."So, I want to show you this nightie I bought," I told her. There was an antique store across the road from where I lived (it should be noted that northeastern Connecticut, as I'm certain much of rural New England, is full of antique stores) that I visited weekly, to browse the new wares. This nightgown I was proud of: crafted of lustrous ivory silk with a black voile overlay and a sleek scarlet ribbon under the breasts, the low-cut black lace bodice had narrow spaghetti straps -- I could just picture a courtesan lounging in her apartment wearing it, shrugging off the sheer long-sleeved ebon surcoat that came with it. We romanticized prostitutes: Les Miserables featured one, and that was reason enough for us.When I stepped into the bedroom wearing it, she squealed, "It's beautiful!" Then she frowned slightly and added, hesitant, "But... it doesn't fit you right."I didn't have her shape; the nightgown hung on my gaunt adolescent form just like it had from the hanger. "Well, you try it on," I said. I still don't know if I actually had a plan, or if it all just fell together, but I changed back into my other clothing and handed her the nightie.Imagine, then, a burlesque dancer, shapely, curvaceous, utterly woman, wearing something that fit like a glove, pushing her already ample breasts together and up, caressing her waist and hips, making of her something you could never have envisioned but, having seen, knew was the way she was meant to be seen. This was Kim, in that nightie. I couldn't speak when I saw her. "Happy birthday," I finally managed, "You can have it. I can't wear it after seeing how perfect it looks on you."We sat down and continued playing on the Ouija board, me in a t-shirt and panties, her in ... that. She didn't wear the surcoat, having modeled it and discarded it, and as I allowed her to spell out the things she wanted to hear ("This is Lestat... I have come for you... We will be together tonight... You are so beautiful..."), I finally blurted, "Tell him he can take over my body."Her smile lit up the room. She told him. She turned on the "Interview with the Vampire" soundtrack, and turned off the lights. She laid down on the bed, under the covers, her eyes closed, her face radiant, her lips curved into a slight smile. I laid beside her. I closed my eyes. I held her hand. I controlled my breathing, and counted to sixty. Then, with a quickly dismissed thought of "You should not be lying to her," I began to touch her.It started with me sliding under the covers, my fingertips on her legs, pushing up the soft voile and the smooth silk, my lips on her hands. She was utterly still. She gasped when I rubbed my hands higher and, frightened, I pulled away. Laid down again. Told her it was done.This happened twice. And twice she insisted, "No, it's okay, don't be scared Tatiana, he won't hurt you, and I don't mind."So then. The third time. It's a charm, you know. This was where I kissed her (before, it should be noted, I had ever French-kissed a boy). This was where my fingertips traced a path for my lips, down her jaw, her throat, over her chest. I tugged at the neckline of the nightgown, running my tongue over the curves of her breasts, then sank under the covers, where the hem of the nightie twisted around her thighs from my previous explorations, and pushed it up to her waist. I kissed her plump thighs, pressed my lips to her high-cut black panties and breathed in the scent of her arousal, nuzzling against her but not daring more.I can't recall how long this, the third time, went on for, but I remember her shuddering under my fingertips, and how powerful I felt, to have someone respond to me like this. I remember the whimpering of her breath, the fluttering of her eyelashes as she struggled to keep them closed. I remember how, while I touched her, she didn't touch me, and I didn't want her to.And I remember, with perfect clarity, when she finally gasped the words that broke the spell: "Lestat. My love."It was a shock to me. She actually believed what she had been 'told'. She thought a fictional character had taken over the body of her fifteen year old friend, and come to her on her sixteenth birthday, and was doing these things to her out of love. She didn't, at least in her state then, realize that it was me, Tatiana, the geeky little blonde alto (I later found out that I had been voted cutest girl in freshman chorus, but no boys would talk to me because of my friends). I pulled away from her. I laid down. And, when her breathing slowed, I said, "It's over. It's just me."After that night, our friendship cooled. I couldn't look her in the eye, and though she asked me repeatedly to come over for the night again, I wouldn't. I wouldn't be alone with her. I wouldn't sit next to her. I relinquished my place as her favourite and drifted off into loneliness. I ate lunch alone every single day of school for the rest of that year. That all changed the next year, when I found Melissa, but that... is a different story altogether.

Friday, January 14, 2005

10 Moments... and Some Ass.

So, it's day two of "Tatiana as a Mute", installment four in the "Tatiana is Wicked Sick (And Not In A Good Way)" series. To celebrate my inability to speak -- and believe it or not, it's really pissing my boyfriend off that I don't talk, he says it's depressing -- this post is exploring 10 moments in Red Sox baseball that have left me (momentarily) speechless.

1. The first time I saw the picture above. I know, I know, I've used it here before. That doesn't make him any less hawt, and frankly divine.2. Realizing that I was in love with Nomah.

3. Realizing that Nomar was not in love with me.

4. When Nomar got traded. No, really, he got traded. I know, I still question it myself, and I wonder whether Theo or Bronson has bigger balls.

5. Dude, we did what? And Mr. Mia Hamm wasn't on the team? Are you for fucking real?

6. July 29, 2003: Billy Mueller's three home run game. Where two of them were grand slams... from different sides of the plate.7. Sitting with my mother, in Connecticut, watching the last game of the regular season in 2003, on NESN. Hearing Jerry Remy chirp, "Buenos noches, amigos!" and knowing that was the last game I'd watch on NESN for a long, long time.8. The first time I saw Orlando Cabrera make an unbelievable, Superman-esque catch and thought, "Wow, I don't know if Nomar could've done that."9. When Big Papi bounced a ball to me over the top of the Blue Jay's visitor dugout, and the asshole next to me snatched it up. Then Ortiz pointed at me, said nothing, and gently rolled a ball in my direction. Fucker is bad luck to hold on to while watching games on TV, but it sits under my monitor all the time. Ortiz is about the most huggable, loveable scary-man that I've ever laid eyes on. 10. What else could this possibly be? 86 years since the win. An 86-run ALCS. 1986: Last World Series appearance. A fucking eclipse, which has provided the loveliest desktop wallpaper for me for months now. Our. World Series Champion. BOSTON RED SOX. It still makes me giddy.Oh, and, not related to baseball, but to lovely women: a gallery of NFL cheerleaders. Ohhh yeah.

Friday, January 07, 2005

Reincarnation (or, It's ALIVE!)

For several weeks now, I've been thinking about where I'm going -- and where I've been -- with this site. In all honesty, it started out in my head as "my sex blog", because I have family members reading my personal site and I didn't want to discuss that aspect of my life there. There's one link to this site on there, buried back in the archives. So how did the whole Sox part come into it? I was trying to think of a name for this site -- and "Sex & Sox" just sounded really good to me. Plus, being pretty involved with reading, if not always participating in, several Red Sox fansites, I'd come to realize that I wanted to express my feelings about the team.So. There's been a noticeable dearth in the entire "Sox" aspect of the site lately. Basically, that's because the two topics aren't precisely good fits with each other, but, whenever there's not baseball to talk about, there's sex to talk about.I don't want to sit here and repeat the news stories you can find on other Red Sox sites, or from turning on NESN, or from listening to WEEI. Admittedly, neither of those last two are an option for me, so I get my sports news from other sites and don't want to come here and repeat it as though I'd heard it myself.Anyhow. That being said, I need to step away from the 'smut' (I use that word lovingly; after all, it is my own work) and back towards my second goal (once I decided to bring in the Sox stuff): a readable blog, for both sexes, that has something witty and intelligent and occasionally insightful to say. Something more along the lines of the "Pondering Sex Workers" post, or "Open Letter to Monsieur Douglas Mientkiewicz" (one of my favourite amusing things I've written).Basically, I feel that I've been ignoring some major aspects of what drew me to this venture in the first place, and a comment on Surviving Grady confirmed what I'd been feeling strange about for a bit.So! Sorry to those of you who might have been put off by the direction I've been writing in for the last while. There's a bit of the old, and a bit of the new, in the works.

Monday, January 03, 2005

Ringin' in 2005

Have you ever been faced with a situation that you thought you wanted to be part of, but had doubts? I was, on New Year's Eve. Well, actually, I have been, for the past year.Several entries ago, I wrote about our friends who are a couple, that we've been toeing the line of having group sex with. They came over for dinner a few weeks back and things were a little bit strange; I didn't take a few cues I was given to go ahead and get the situation started, and nothing happened.New Year's Eve, we were invited to their place.I came to realize how well my boyfriend can orchestrate... how well he can read people.He and I were sitting together on the loveseat; the woman was on a chair and her husband on the couch. After midnight, when we were all bright-eyed and laughing loudly and drunk, she stood up to get another drink and my boyfriend went and sat in her chair. She came back and sat next to me, and while the boys talked about the best way to teach karate or something, we snuggled up with our heads close to one another, hands high on each other's thighs, and whispered about going to see movies and concerts together.My boyfriend moved to sit on the end of the couch closest to me, and pulled me over into his lap, talking to the woman.Twenty minutes of conversation between us all later, he nudged me off his lap and towards the other man, who I promptly curled up against. Shortly thereafter, the woman moved to sit between my boyfriend's legs, her chin resting up next to his groin.I couldn't stop smiling.I was always vaguely uncertain about how I'd feel to watch my boyfriend seduce someone else -- not the act of having sex, but the slow convincing, the stroking and smiling and smooching. Half an hour later, when she was next to him on the couch, his hands slipping up her shirt or down the front of her pants, those uncertainties disappeared. Snuggled up against her husband and shivering as he toyed with my hair or stroked the sides of my neck, we just watched the foreplay between the other two."We'll have to do this again," she whispered, "when there aren't so many people in the house." So true. There were two other couples (useless, in this context) in the house -- one near the master bedroom, one near the guest bedroom we'd be sleeping in. Our orgy wasn't an option, that night.Hours later we separated, and as the boyfriend and I stripped down and crawled into the bed together, I asked, "Sex?" "Tired," he replied, "Drunk. I don't know..."That wasn't about to stop me -- not after a night-long ritual of arousal and seduction, watching those not-so-innocent but restrained flirtations that aren't usually a part of adult life. We (I) don't take our (my) time with lovers: we meet them, we make a tacit agreement to sleep together, we sleep together. There is no courtship, no "getting to know" one another; there is the simple acknowledgement that "I want to fuck you" and it goes. At least, that was my experience. I recall inviting a male friend down from New York to spend the weekend with me in my apartment in Connecticut. As we sat talking in the living room, I said, "I should go get the extra blanket and pillows for you," followed by him looked me straight in the eye and replying, "Don't play around like that... we're sleeping together." He was my first after my ex, and I realized that lying to myself, and whoever it was I wanted to sleep with, was silly: a single, virile man wasn't going to refuse a willing woman.Anyhow, I needed that sex we had on New Year's Eve, the boyfriend and I. I needed to bite my lip and control my voice, because I couldn't control my desires. I needed the erotic connection with him that drew us together, rather than the mental one that keeps us going. I needed to scratch my nails down his back and hiss that he was mine and know that, even though he had been focused on another woman, I was his ultimate aphrodisiac.I needed a rough, feral, growling fuck. I got it.And when we'd both orgasmed, he leaned over me and we kissed and kissed, quick, sloppy, alcohol-scented kisses, gasping "I love you, I love you," between them.Happy New Year.

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About Me

I am a twenty-two year old woman living in Toronto, who loves the Boston Red Sox and sex (among other things, my chihuahua included!) I'm in a very committed relationship with the man of my dreams -- seriously! I'm hoping to study cultural anthropology (most likely with a focus on linguistics or sexuality), with the eventual goal of becoming a university professor. Outside of baseball and sex, I very much enjoy role-playing games, both text-based and graphical.AIM Screenname: sexandsox
E-mail: gmail account sexandsox

Yes, fellas, I'm taken. Ladies, leave a comment and I'll get back to you.